


be my once in a lifetime

by HappyPrincess



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Bottom Harry, Bottom Louis, Canon Compliant, Consensual Kink, Daddy Kink, Depictions of the Music Industry despite having zero knowledge about it, Dom/sub, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Exes to Lovers, Harry in Makeup, Harry in Panties, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Recreational Drug Use, References to Depression, Rimming, Rough Sex, Spanking, Under-negotiated Kink, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unsafe Sex, Verbal Humiliation, Vomiting, because of the intoxication in general, but there's also a specific scene, depending on what you consider Canon, lack of aftercare, sex under the influence, this is not a how-to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 06:48:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20523710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappyPrincess/pseuds/HappyPrincess
Summary: Just like there are only four other people who will ever understand what it’s like growing up in One Direction, there’s only one other person who knows what it’s like to find your soulmate just before you’re thrown into the spotlight and forced to acknowledge that the both of you have too many flaws and vices to make it through fame together.Or: It's all about having sex and being sad. And drunk.





	be my once in a lifetime

**Author's Note:**

> The first thing I need to do is thank several people:  
Lana del Rey for continuously writing inspiring albums, her song Love Song providing this fic with its title. Ramin Djawadi and Tamino for making the most beautiful music as well. I don't think I listened to anything else but those three for the past days.
> 
> The most important one I want to thank is Phoenix objectlesson / @alienfuckeronmain. You're the fucking best and this story is Heavily inspired by burnt!! Also, shout out for the rest of the GC, and Felix for being the Most encouraging friends ever. And to eleadore and mediaville for writing one shots that make me yearn for more angsty pwp.
> 
> I can't believe I'm posting a fic as exposing as this, yikes. Anyway, I'd love to recieve comments and some thoughts on tumblr (@pattern-pals)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't actually think this is canon but when has that ever mattered. This is neither beta-ed nor britpicked AND I edited this at 3am. I hope to correct all mistakes I haven't fount yet ASAP. Also, this is for conceptual exploration only: Do Not Take This As A Guide. Yay to therapy. xx

Louis considers himself to have experienced three important first kisses in his life. 

The first one, when he was thirteen, in the boys changing room right after practice, tasted like artificial peaches.   
The second one, when he was eighteen, in a bunk bed at the x-factor, tasted like cheap chocolate and energy drinks.   
The third one, when he is twenty-seven, trying to put together an album, trying to get better, trying to do what’s right, tastes like salt. 

-*- Spring -*-   


It’s the birthday of an important executive that everyone who wants to stay relevant in the British charts should attend, so Louis arranges a chauffeur, dresses in a fitted suit and prepares the guest bedroom in his London flat. One of his agents is with him and so are several other people from his new team but he doesn’t invite his friends, knows himself too well to let them witness what he’s about to do. The event is less about partying and more about networking anyway, and even though Calvin is trying to suck up to some producers at the moment, he’s trying to do that without Louis’ name involved. He does take Eleanor, though. She counts as his friend in some way or the other, but lately they’re more falling on the sides of co-workers and that’s exactly what they’re doing as soon as the car pulls up by the club; stepping out hand in hand. 

“Thank you for coming along,” he says, as always, while their coats are being taken. He fiddles with the straps of the giftbag in his grip. 

“No problem,” she replies, as always, and hooks her arm into his. “I’m meeting up Alana at 1am, hope we’re fine until then?” 

“Yeah, should be. Do you want me to call you a car?” 

She shakes her head, straightened hair glimmering in the sparkling light of the chandeliers. In the middle of the celling is a huge disco ball that’s reflecting a dozen colours onto the walls, a rainbow of swirls cutting through the fog that’s pouring over the dance floor. Apart from a few groups bopping to the song booming from the speakers, most people are still by the bar and busy shaking hands. They join them, preoccupied with saying hello to at least half the people there and getting introduced to several new faces. The executive doesn’t even look inside the giftbag, puts it on a table next to much more extravagant boxes and wrappings, but thanks them with manic eyes and a slick grin. 

Niall isn’t here and neither is Zayn, the former because he’s in Ireland with his new boyfriend, the latter because he never is. Liam, easily spotted, is going through another obsession of obscure clothing, the inner lining of his suit in a pattern that turns Louis’ laugh into a cackle and makes his heart ache. Harry is here, too. As soon as they spotted each other, he reached for a flute of champagne. 

“So, you’re a proper model now, huh,” Eleanor quips at Liam, nudging his side. “I’m feeling threatened.” 

Liam tries to play it cool, but Louis knows he’s mighty pleased about his recent sponsorship, still soaking up the validation about his looks after a decade. They all have their weak spots. 

Louis consciously angles himself so he’s looking out at the dancefloor, pretending to listen to the two talking about their individual projects and ignores the shards of doubts about his own. Everything seems to slip out of his grasp lately, but if he lets those thoughts in tonight, he’ll just end up depressed for the next week. Instead, he nurses his third, then fourth glass of champagne and tries not to stare at Harry dancing to the sound of Rita Ora. And dancing with Rita Ora. They’re both cheering, hanging off each other’s necks, raising their drinks, visibly preening under the attention they’re getting. It makes Louis’ stomach curl up. 

“Anyone want a shot?” He asks, not giving them time to answer before he places his flute somewhere on a flat surface and threads through the thickening crowd. The cloud of perfumes and fresh sweat hits his nose and he feels a calm wash over him, the same calm that comes with driving down a highway in an ordinary car with tinted windows, of becoming invisible. He’s not the most interesting person in the room, not by far, and he enjoys hopping around with Eleanor without a horde of people trying to take photos of them. There are a few paparazzi by the doors, but they’re the kind that gets paid to capture very specific scenarios. 

He gets sweaty and drunk and dizzy and drunk some more and his mind eventually quiets down, his muscles slackening and his wrists flailing, and maybe he grinds with a cute boy for a second, but soon enough Eleanor pulls him aside to stumble outside and light some cigarettes, standing by the windows so the paparazzi can get some well-lit shots. He alternates between inhaling the smoke and nursing a bottle of beer. 

“So, you two are still doing your thing.” Eleanor says, not even judging him. There’s no room for judgement between them anymore. He doesn’t answer. They finish their fags and hug before she leaves, he watches her slide into a cab and pull out her phone. The bottle is empty before he goes inside, heading to the bar for what feels like the dozenth time today, and ordering another. There’s still champagne carried around by waiters in white vests, but he is feeling tingly enough, skin breaking out in goose bumps now that he’s alone and the inevitable nearing. Liam is chatting to a group of people by a fountain in the corner, but Louis doesn’t want to talk to him. He doesn’t want to think about One Direction or the past or all the other wrong turns he took in less than three decades of being alive. 

He dances and pretends to be ecstatic until he sees Harry walking towards the cloakroom, a swarm of friends in tow. Ten minutes pass and he follows. The spring air is crisp as he crosses the parking lot behind the club and he shivers in the wind as he steps to the right side of the car. The driver rolls down the window. “He’s in the back. His place?” 

“Mine,” Louis correct and thanks him. 

As soon as he closes the door, he sinks into the leather. He rolls his head to the side and takes in the sight of Harry kneeling on the dirty floor, wedged between the seats, his pupils blown, his nose suspiciously red, his hands clasped in his lap. The overhead lights flicker out as the car surges forward and begins merging with the traffic. They’re cloaked in darkness, the sharp angles of Harry’s face lighting up in the occasional streetlamp flashing by. 

“Didn’t even wait until we were in a proper room until you got down on your knees.” Louis feels delirious tracing his damp temple, his jaw, his stubbly chin. 

“Want you to fuck me tonight, Daddy,” Harry rasps and sucks his thumb into his mouth. 

Louis’ neck burns. It should be at least twenty minutes until they’re at his flat. He goes to open the button on his trousers with his free hand, suppressing shudders as Harry laps at the other. “If you’re good, I will.” 

Harry’s brows tighten. “’m good,” he slurs around Louis’ finger and lets him fuck his mouth until they arrive, clinging to him as they ride the elevator and hurry towards the guestroom, shedding clothes along the way. Neither of them can stay upright, too pissed to even prep Harry properly and his moans go hoarse of pleasure pain as Louis takes him from behind; it’s a miracle they can even come in this state, but their bodies are used to this by now, surrendering to it, just like Louis surrenders his mind while he pumps Harry full of his come and bites bruises into his spine. 

-*- 

He awakes with a start, heart hammering in his chest. It takes at least a minute until he can open his eyes, expecting the horrors of his dreams, but he is greeted with the bend of Harry’s back instead. It’s littered with red marks. The sight makes his heart beat even faster, drumming in his forehead, his insides feeling sick and disgusting. His skin itches like it’s crawling with insects. Without being careful of their intertwined legs, he gets up and makes sure to slam the door when he disappears into the bathroom. When he emerges, steam following him, the bed is empty and neatly made. 

-*- Summer -*- 

A couple of months pass before they see each other again. The pap pics of him and Eleanor get posted alongside various misinformation and speculations on his upcoming music, he spends most of his time isolating and hating himself for it, falling into the depression he was so sure to avoid. Some of his sisters call and he does his best to take care of them, not giving them the chance to ask if he’s well. He refuses to write songs, not because he isn’t inspired but because he’s tired of writing about the same things over and over again, too conscious of the concept they’ve planned for his album and that doesn’t include another song declaring his love for someone he can’t have. Not that the fans would complain about that. 

Summer comes in waves of heat and it’s too easy to imagine what Harry is doing this time of the year, so he avoids the dive bars and beaches, but can’t help looking through some galleries to send suggestions to Harry’s art adviser. In July he gets invited to a late night host’s anniversary in LA and books a suite at the usual hotel. Despite the both of them owning places in the city, they never end up at them - maybe because they bought them when they were still together or maybe because Harry knows there are too many bad memories tied to Louis’ house and he knows Harry takes all his flings home to allow them where he isn’t anymore. 

There are scarcely any people here he is familiar with, so he keeps to the ones he knows, which leaves him chatting to a few writers and producers, exchanging numbers and promises to meet up. They’re probably empty ones, but it still gets him elated and thankful to have made it out of his funk. He kind of wants to leave and spend the rest of the night piecing together some songs. But he’s also been noticing the way Harry is flirting with a blonde. Louis doesn’t know if this is part of their push and pull or whether he is actually interested. He contemplates catching him by the toilets to outright ask, but they don’t do that kind of thing anymore. Open communication and public interaction. Mixed with his inspiration to write, the uncertainty gets him jittery and aching to get drunk. This, at least, is part of their routine. 

Two hours of him typing into his phone go by, all he does is down drinks and watch Harry and the woman giggling into each other’s shoulders. He remembers the years this would’ve made him go faint with jealousy, remembers when he would’ve been able to dig a hand into Harry’s hip and scowl at whomever he was capturing that night, remembers the first months he wasn’t allowed to do that anymore, and then the months he was again, and then the years of an open relationship that went from open to dishonest, and then the year they wouldn’t see each other at all. He leans back into a wall and keeps nodding to whatever the person next to him is saying, thinking that he can stand a few months without Harry but that he never, ever wants to go back to that year, knowing he would do anything in his power to have him. Knowing that Harry feels the same. 

At least usually. Looks like Louis isn’t needed today, judging from the way the blonde is being dragged towards the toilets. 

The person that’s talking to him examines him when he pushes himself of the wall and promptly has to catch himself before falling over. “Do you need -” 

“I’m fine,” he brushes them off. “I should head home. Good night.” 

He’s gone before they can hug him goodbye or try and convince him to stay, fishing for his phone and calling his driver to meet him in five. The night sky is monochrome, not a single star visible. Fucking cities. Fucking LA. Fucking Harry. He searches for a pack of cigarettes but remembers leaving them in the car, thinking they would stay for an hour tops before leaving for the hotel. 

Thankfully, the driver sends him a message in exactly four minutes, dropping her location. It’s still warm, air filled with a dry breeze and the noise of the traffic down the street, people screeching and laughing behind the fence surrounding the venue. His body throws shadows that shrink and grow with the stride of his steps. Before he has left the vicinity of the building, someone calls after him. 

“Louis!” It’s stretched as if Harry had added the last syllable in an afterthought. “Where’re you going?” 

He waits until Harry stops in front of him, slightly too close for comfort, his watery eyes flittering and wide. His hair is backlit, streaks of gold shimmering in his curls. There’s lipstick on his mouth. It makes Louis want to seize him by the collar. “Leaving you to go fuck that woman.” 

Harry’s drunken smirk makes his fingers twitch. “Thought you didn’t care who I fuck.” 

“Exactly,” Louis spits and turns around. His heart stops when he hears the sound of footfall mirroring his own. 

They’re silent all the way to the hotel, not falling into their usual behaviour of touching as soon as the car starts, not even touching after he closes the door of the room. His shoulders are tense, his smarting neck indicating the headache he’ll have tomorrow, limbs feeling both rigid from his anger and loose from the alcohol. Inside, the AC is humming and cooling his heated skin. The shades are open and he goes to close them, but before he even reaches the windows, Harry plasters himself to his back. He’s so warm it’s burning through the layers of their clothes. “Are you going to punish me, Daddy?” 

Louis closes his eyes, letting the neediness in Harry’s voice wash over him. “That’s just giving you what you want.” 

“But don’t you want to give me what I want?” A kiss, on the side of his neck. Another one behind his ear. They’re probably leaving pink stains. “Don’t you want to make me cry?” 

Harry’s hand slides down his front, slips under the hem of his shirt and along the zip of his jeans where his cock twitches. He smells fruity. Louis’ knees get weak at the next whisper. “Please, Daddy.” 

“Get on the bed.” 

He can feel the stutter in Harry’s breath and the smile on his lips as one last kiss is pressed to his neck, then the heat at his back is gone. Louis doesn’t watch him get undressed, closes the shades and gets the essentials from his backpack. He wonders if Harry’s tongue still tastes like that woman’s spit, if he’d prefer Louis’, if he’d ever want to kiss him again, what he’d do if Louis ordered him to part his lips for him instead of rolling over and presenting his arse. Thin, lacy panties hug the curve of his cheeks. They’re black and white, little bows adorning the seams. “Dressed yourself up, did you?” 

Harry stretches, his fingers touching the headboard, his milky thighs tensing. He shaved. “Knew you’d be there.” 

Louis spanks him. It must come as a shock, usually he warms him up with little pinches and forceful squeezes, and it makes him choke on a moan. “So desperate for it.” Harry tries to get on his knees, but Louis yanks him down, his legs hanging off the bed, then he sits down on the duvet next to him. He admires the bloom of pink where his hand left a visible print, then pushes the heels of his palms into the soft places under Harry’s shoulder blades. It’s where most of his knots tend to form when he’s stressed, and sure enough the pressure earns him another breathless sound. “You walk around in these, hoping to get fucked, hoping for _me_ to fuck you – is that why you made sure I saw you with her? So I’d spank you and fuck you hard?” 

Harry whimpers, rubbing his face into the pillow, raises his bum. “Do it, please, c’mon.” 

At this point it’d be more of a punishment, not to make it hurt. He quickly considers and disregards the idea to make Harry fuck him, keep him on his back and use him, but he can’t make himself even more vulnerable tonight, knows he would just claw and grasp at him, burning with the desire to kiss him. Louis misses his lips. His fingers travel down the curve of Harry’s spine, rubbing the lace between the tips of them. “I’m not gonna fuck you.” 

Harry’s head surges up, he goes to move up again, but Louis grips his waist with one hand and pinches his arse with the other. “But I’m going to give you that spanking and you’re going to rub yourself on the mattress like a good boy until I tell you to come.” 

He watches Harry’s muscles relax and keeps up the pinching, digging into the knots next to spine and where his thighs meet his cheeks, snapping the panties against his flushing skin. It’s the only way he’s allowed to touch him this extensively, any semblance of tenderness eliciting a sharp complaint. A moment passes before Harry murmurs something into the pillow. 

“Speak up,” Louis says and spanks him again. 

“What-”, a gasp, “- what about you, Daddy?” 

“What about me?” 

“Want you to come, too.” 

This, of all things, makes Louis want cry. It’s not like he doesn’t get anything out of these stolen nights, he craves being Harry’s Daddy, will take up any chance to be close to him, but it’s mostly about Harry getting what he wants. What he can only get from him, Louis thinks with a deep satisfaction that’s the reason he accepts the frustration and the drunkenness. 

“You can suck me off after, Baby”, he startles himself with the the endearment at the end, and that’s why he starts hitting properly. He keeps up a good rhythm and manages to create an even pattern, eventually pulling the panties down to Harry’s thighs and giving it to him on his bare skin. His sounds get throatier with every set of five, a string of moans that fill up the suite and echo in Louis’ ears. Alarmingly, he starts feeling sober or simply less helpless, because his mind stops whirring. 

He shakes out his wrists and stands up for a second, stretching and getting rid of his clothes. His cock twitches in the cool air and he tugs at it a few times, groaning at the rough drag. “Daddy,” he hears faintly and meets Harry’s gaze. His lashes are wet with tears. Louis wishes he could kiss them away. “Daddy, please, let me -. Make me come.” 

“You’re in no place to demand things,” he says, but kneels behind him, spreading his legs and pulling down the panties. In a mad flash, he wants to hide them in his backpack, take them as a souvenir. Instead, he rolls them into a ball and throws them where the rest of Harry’s clothes lie. He goes to rub over his smooth thighs, drilling his nails into the marks his hands left behind. Without thinking, he bends down and follows his fingers with soft kisses. Harry whines, whole body going stiff. “More-, gimme more.” 

Louis drags a finger down his crack and finds his hole, the glide effortless with sweat. It’d be so easy to slide it into him, open him up and take him this way. They’d both turn into babbling messes, forgetting about the rest of the world, forgetting about that woman, forgetting about everyone else they’ve ever fucked, forgetting that this isn’t permanent. Louis sinks his teeth into Harry’s left cheek, sucking a red imprint onto his skin. A hand buries itself in his hair pushes his face closer. “You gonna lick me out, Daddy?” 

He pulls back, kneeling again and smacking Harry right over his pink hole. “Did I allow you to touch me?” 

“S-sorry, Daddy,” Harry gasps, clutching the pillow. 

“You can get off against the mattress, if you want.” 

“If I want?” An uneasy stare over his glistening shoulder. 

Louis schools his expression as much as he can, getting on the bed and crawling towards the headboard, sitting up against it. He watches Harry’s fixed look on his cock, his eyes still wet and his lips chafed. “That’s the only way you can come tonight. Been such a brat, demanding things, trying to control Daddy.” 

Harry apologises again, but he doesn’t look up while doing it, face now pressed into the pillow as he scoots up the mattress and starts rotating his hips. His back twists and contorts, his muscles twitch. The light makes him glow in a golden sheen, his curls so shiny, Louis can’t help but pull at them, force them to make eye contact again. His knee bumps into Harry’s side, and Harry mouths at his thigh, movements getting choppier. It shoots sparks to his groin, his cock straining at the lack of attention. He wraps his hand around it, licking his lips at the relief and something small surges inside his chest when Harry mirrors the act. “Said - said you’d let me suck you, Daddy.” 

“Is that another demand?” 

The back of Harry’s hand lies against the side of Louis’ arse. “Please, will you fuck my mouth?” 

Louis’s laugh breaks off into a moan, his legs jerking. His throat closes up when Harry answers it with a chuckle of his own. They don’t laugh together – not when doing this, anyway. This is about being rough and stupid and drunk and ignoring their emotions. Not about Louis carefully moving and caging Harry in with his thighs, gently leading him to his cock. There’s no lipstick left on his lips, and with a quick glance he finds it smeared all over the sheets. And then he doesn’t look at anything but Harry’s face, at his tongue darting out to lick the pre-come off his slit, his mouth stretching around the head of his dick, his nostrils flaring as his throat flutters. His brows draw together, but he keeps looking back at Louis while he sinks down, hands coming up to steady himself. The wet heat makes Louis’ balls tighten and he fumbles to squeeze them, pulling at Harry’s hair with the other hand. “So good at taking cock,” he whispers. 

Harry’s groan vibrates around him. He starts fucking himself against the mattress again, becoming rapid now, his mouth sloppy, spit trailing down his chin. Louis’ own hips move, snapping up and choking Harry, but it just evokes another groan, a few more centimetres of his dick disappearing into his mouth. The two of them are still staring at each other and that’s why he sees the single tear escape the corner of Harry’s eye, rolling down his cheekbone until Louis thumbs it away. It comes as close to a kiss as they allow themselves to get. It also makes a hundred memories well up within him, heart seizing as he is not only reminded of all the times Harry has cried in bed, but cried in his arms, let himself be open and vulnerable, trusting him with his sadness. “God - Baby, I -” 

Without a warning, Harry takes him all the way, his nose pressing into his pubes, his hips drilling into the sheet, stilling and shuddering, his reddened arse trembling. He didn’t even reach for his cock, his hands still between them, helping to keep him on his elbows. Harry splutters and Louis’ dick slips out from his lips, a string of saliva following him. He coughs, his chest visibly expanding with breaths. His hair is plastered to his neck, darkened by sweat, and when he rolls over onto his back, awkwardly knocking into Louis’ leg, his chest is glistening, too. Come is sticking to his tattoos and the duvet, his cock still a dark pink. He is absolutely beautiful, his face relaxed and his fingers idly playing with his rings. His nails are painted blue. 

Louis moves to get up and wank in the bathroom, cry his eyes out in his shower, and then to cry himself to sleep in an empty, messed up bed. But before he gets both feet on the floor, Harry’s hand wraps around his wrist. “Come on me.” 

Louis doesn’t reprimand him for not asking or not calling him Daddy. Slowly, he gets up on his knees, hauled in until he’s straddling Harry’s chest and reaches for his cock. It’s still throbbing with want, but he’s not really doing much, thumbing at it half-heartedly. Harry’s eyes are closed, and he could easily be asleep. As much as the fantasy could make him come in a different setting, right now it hurts like hell. Whereas a few minutes ago he dared to caress Harry’s face, he isn’t even sure if he’s allowed to touch him at all anymore. 

“Why aren’t you doing anything,” Harry asks, voice hoarse, still not looking at him. “Can only come on me, when you can’t see me? Can pretend I’m someone else?” 

It’s so far from the truth, Louis lets out a hysteric giggle. “Sure, that’s exactly why I love seeing you choke on my cock.” 

Harry bites om his twitching lip. “My throat’s sore.” 

“Look at me,” Louis whispers. 

As soon as he sees those green eyes, he breathes out the air he was trapping in his lungs. He feels drunk again. His head is dizzy, maybe from lack of oxygen, maybe from the beers he had earlier, maybe from the way Harry wraps his big hand around his shaft, rings cool against his heated cock. He pulls him off slowly, blinking up at him lazily, knowing that Louis’ gaze is stuck on the soreness of his lips and the flush of his cheeks. Harry clears his throat before he murmurs: “Spanked me so hard, gonna feel it for day. Can’t even lie down properly.” 

Louis grasps the headboard, fucking into his fist. “Roped me into it, didn’t you?” He can feel himself getting close again. 

“Love it when you spank me like that,” Harry says softly, almost dreamily. “Love it when you leave your marks on me.” 

He wants him to stop talking. He wants him to push him again, to get that arrogant smirk on his plush mouth, to make him want to push in return, snarl his own mouth around mean words. His fingers tremble, his thighs, too, his voice shaky when he says: “Always want to leave marks on you.” 

This time, it’s him who closes his eyes, imagining a world where he could do exactly that, suck marks into Harry’s neck and keep him in bed the whole day, deepening them whenever he wants. He imagines getting to kiss Harry any time of the day, when he gets home, when he leaves for a meeting, cuddling on the couch, crawling into their bed. 

“Louis, I -”, Harry sounds like he’s crying. Louis doesn’t dare to look. “Daddy, I – want you to come, I -." 

It’s the sound of his own name that does it in the end. He comes with spurts that seem to drain him, his spine stiff, shaking from head to toe. Then, his whole body goes slack. He slides to his side, their legs pressed up against each other. Only when his breathing has calmed, he takes in the ropes of white on Harry’s face, dripping down his neck, glistening on his curls. Louis rubs it into his skin mindlessly. His thumb catches against the corner of his mouth, tracing the swell of his lower lips. They smell heady and sticky and exhausted and like one. He moves closer and closer, slowly. Hot breath puffing against his nose. 

Harry turns his head slightly and sucks at Louis’ thumb, his tongue curling around the digit, before he lets it slips out and sits up. “’m going to shower.” 

Louis watches him slip into the bathroom, his arse bruised, his shoulders hunched. As soon as the sound of the spray goes off, he allows himself three control sobs. It’s an expensive room with a luxury shower, but it shuts off within minutes. Harry dresses quickly, his eyes cast to the floor, one hand on the handle before turning around, mouthing around silent words, then sinking into himself and closing the door with a quiet goodbye. The room is silent. Until Louis starts properly crying, of course. 

-*- Autumn -*- 

The next time they’re at an event at the same time, Liam’s birthday, Harry vanishes with a group of people and doesn’t magically show up by the car. On Niall’s birthday, Louis waits an hour by the parking lot before he gives up waiting, and instead orders room service in the suite that’s too big on his own. But if there is one thing he is familiar with, it’s spaces feeling like he doesn’t belong, so he makes do. 

Back in the UK, he tries to distract himself, working as much as he can, going out, even seeing a nice guy for three weeks, until he gets dumped over texts. None of his friends ask if anything major happened, all used to him being like this lately, sad and exhausted and depressed. There’s no point in trying to explain his situation, anyway. Just like there are only four other people who will ever understand what it’s like growing up in One Direction, there’s only one other person who knows what it’s like to find your soulmate just before you’re thrown into the spotlight and forced to acknowledge that the both of you have too many flaws and vices to make it through fame together. 

When the summer is truly over and the days are shorter than the nights, Louis has managed to see his therapist regularly again and slowly turn those sparse writing highs into more stable flows of determination and creativity. He feels much more balanced. The lows aren’t as cutting as they used to be. It’s why he sends the text instead of throwing himself heart first into the party the upcoming night. 

**Are you at the ****mahiki** **tomorrow?**

It takes six hours until he gets a reply. He spends them at a friend’s house, smoking up and watching a re-run of Peaky Blinders on TV. His phone is on silent, but he checks it compulsively and that’s why he immediately sees the little icon light up. 

** _ Yes. _ **

** You want to come back to the flat ** ** after ** ** ? **

There’s nothing but emails for the rest of the day and he wakes up with at least a hundred texts but none of them are from Harry. He tells himself that’s fine and that he’s much better anyway and that he’s internalised all the coping mechanisms and that he is ready to let the past bury itself. They should have stopped this ages ago and if Harry has finally found the strength to do so, Louis should accept his decision, be grateful even. 

He isn’t, though. He wants him back and he wants him unconditionally. 

-*- 

This event is much smaller than the last. It’s not quite intimate, but the host greets everyone individually and the seats are assigned. After a fancy dinner that Louis spends talking to an Instagram influencer and a designer pair with grand ideas and an even grander ego, the lights turn off. And then everyone is forced to wear orange neon lights wrapped around their torso. The club seems like a fever dream with everyone dancing to vaporwave and getting continuously brighter as the night goes on. Because for every drink one buys, another string of fairy lights is coiled around one’s body. 

There are a few others who have either laughingly thrown them around their friends or on the floor, but the influencer has decided to follow him around like a dog, incredibly stuck on the rules and refusing to let him take off the wires. At least he has someone he can steal drinks from and pretend he’s interested in talking to when a honking laugh booms behind him. He wishes Eleanor was here, but she’s on vacation with her girlfriend and sending him snaps of snowy mountains. 

When he trips over someone’s low hanging wire for the third time in just as many minutes, he excuses himself to the bathroom. The lights are normal here, much softer on the eyes than the flickering neon. He takes a piss, scoffing at the golden ornaments all over the place, washes his hands for way too long, not at all because he feels dirty and disgusting to the bones, then spends at least five minutes scrutinises himself in the mirror. The towels are proper ones of cotton instead of paper and the soap is self-made, shaped like peaches. It sends him down a spiral of childhood memories, drinking iced tea after footballs practice and sharing it with his best friend. If he leaves now, he won’t have a hangover tomorrow and he might be able to call his sisters in the morning. 

The door bangs open. 

Harry is ablaze like a fucking bonfire. 

They stare at each other for a few heartbeats, his own rabbiting to the rhythm of the muffled music, and then Harry raises his chin, teetering to one of the stalls. Louis stands shell-shocked, water dripping behind him. His ears drum with the echo of distant bass. Harry’s face wasn’t only contoured by an orange glow, but by dark eyeliner and cherry red lips. Lipstick that isn’t smeared on his mouth like a cruelty but applied with beautiful care. Louis has seen him in makeup before, has kissed him in it, but it used to be faint, easily explained as shadow or the natural blush of his skin. Not like this. Nothing as suggestive. 

He hears a quiet groan and thinks for a hot, terrifying second Harry is jerking off. But it evolves into frustrated muttering, thuds that sound like kicks to the toilet. 

“Everything okay in there?” He asks and thinks about running as soon as he’s greeted with silence. 

The bathroom tiles are chequered, the black shiny and the white stained by dozens of shoes. His own leave a trail of dirt from when he was having a smoke an hour ago. He knocks against the frame of the stall. “If you’re taking anything -” 

“’m stuck.” 

“What?” 

Harry rips the door open, furious expression on his face. “I’m fucking stuck in these lights.” 

When Louis laughs, he slams the door back shut. There’s a shuffle and another groan. If the whole situation wasn’t so completely startling and hilarious, he’d find it erotic. “C’mon, let me help you with those. Promise I won’t tell your cool friends about your clumsy mess.” 

A wisp of gin and lime hits him in the nose as Harry opens the door again. He leans on the other side of the frame, all of him behind the golden line on the floor that separates the stall from the rest of the bathroom. Except for the flares of his trousers covering his shoes and dragging over the tiles. “There’s knots I can’t reach.” 

“Turn around then,” he says without looking away from the highlighter on Harry’s cheekbones. It’s pink but when he tilts his head it glimmers in different tones of peach. Louis can taste iced tea on his tongue. He wonders if they used to drink the same brand in their first shared flat as the one his mother would give him as a child. If, when he’d drink it now, it would taste like home or like a lack of it. 

Harry cards a hand through his hair before discreetly wiping at his nose while he turns around. His other arm is constricted by a wire that goes three times around his ribcage and ends in a tangle above the swell of his arse. With trembling fingers, Louis reaches for the knot and fiddles with it. The veins on the back of his own wrists are grey in the orange of the fairy lights, not giving away the rushing of his blood. The fabric of Harry’s blouse is damp, the pattern darker in some spots than others. Instead of shying away from the sweat, Louis presses the tips of his fingers into it, thus digging into Harry’s spine. It makes him slouch and moan quietly. His back melts under Louis’ hands, so he slides them beneath the wires to massage him rather than trying to loosen the coils. If one of them would stumble, he’d take the other with him. 

It feels wrong touching him practically sober, like lying to him. Except his limbs act on their own accord without alcohol just fine, and he has been hiding truths from him for years. Harry leans back against his chest. They have to balance their weight for a second, stumbling forward into the cubicle, but Louis loops his fingers into the beltloops of the flared trousers and clings on. His hands roam beneath the lights, wandering over tense muscles and cool silk. He places a kiss on Harry’s neck, a single hair sticking to his lip. “If I take you to the hotel right now, to sleep, will you stay until morning to -. To talk?” 

There’s no indicator to what Harry is feeling except for the stumbling of his heart under the palm of Louis’ hand. He holds onto the sensation and keeps kissing his neck, licking where he smells as sweet as he smells sharp. “We don’t have to do anything; I just want to try and... try and do things differently.” 

The words don’t come easy to him, especially because he knows he’ll remember each and every one of it. But he’s glad, glad he didn’t drink much, glad this is him entirely in control of what he is giving away and what he’s keeping for himself. 

He closes his eyes and sighs. “I miss you.” 

Harry audibly exhales and turns his head to mouth at Louis’ temple. His lips are waxy and inept, skidding along his hairline. Maybe spreading the cherry red. The prospect of leaving with such a mark on his face makes him shiver, makes him drift into the touch. He mistakes it for a caress until Harry speaks up, voice high and whiny. “Could fuck me like this, Daddy. All tied up.” 

Louis clenches his teeth. Vile remarks threated to escape him, before he catches himself and attempts to free his hands. Suddenly, he’s feeling too hot and not in a good way. Something in the back of his head starts stinging. “I’m not fucking you in a public bathroom.” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” It’s so _petulant_. Which is both ridiculous and painful, because Harry fully knows what his pout is capable of doing to others. 

Maybe getting drunk is still an option. 

Louis yanks at the fairy light by Harry’s hip to free his fingers, then clenches his fists at his sides and takes a few steps back. He needs air. He needs a cigarette and a call with someone who doesn’t make him want scream. Nothing ever goes like he plans, nothing ever works out, nothing is every easy for him and he is sick of it, tired of it, exhausted of presenting his heart on a platter only to have it shattered. 

Before he’s even crossed the room, Harry grabs his wrist, cutting off his circulation with the force of it. Louis has a violent flashback to the last time, looking down at him while he wanked off, trying not to cry like he’s trying not to cry now. It shocks him into a stupor when it’s Harry that blinks back tears before whispering: “Why don’t you want me anymore?” 

He stares at him in disbelieve. “You’re the one running away from me.” 

“’m not the one running right now.” 

“Because you don’t _ fucking _ listen-” 

“I listened for _ years _, Louis!” Harry shouts. He flinches. “I listened to all your fucking promises and your, your apologies and I trusted you, but you always, always fucked up again!” 

“Don’t pretend like I'm the only one who fucked up all the time!” Louis screeches back. 

“I thought we’d agreed to keep feelings out of-” 

“Oh,” he snarls, twisting out of Harry’s grasp only to yank him in by a wire of lights. “Keep feelings out of it? Is that what it is when you beg me to punish you because you don’t know how to handle your guilt? Is that what it is when you try anything to get my mark on you? Because you don’t have any _ fe__elings _ for me?” 

Harry has paled and his skin looks sickly in the orange gleam. Louis, feeling nauseous himself but unable to stop, forces them close enough to share the same breath. “You call me Daddy because I’m the only one who can make you feel like that. Who can make you feel save enough to let go.” 

“I’m not – I don’t -…” Harry swallows, Adam's apple bopping with it. 

“You know I want you,” Louis says weakly. 

And then there is a hand at his nape, a thumb tilting his chin upward. Gin and lime and sweat invade his senses, make his tongue tingle, blood rushing in his ears and down towards his crotch. His skin feels sticky, shirt stuck to his pits and to his spine. Everything within him aches to press their mouths together. Harry’s lip quiver on the corners of his own. He can’t close his eyes, has to devour the sight of lined lashes, flushed cheeks and unruly curls. That, and the white powder dusting the inside of Harry’s nose. He tears himself away again. “Don’t kiss me when you’re like this.” 

The bathroom walls pulsate around him, expanding and narrowing, floor wonky beneath his feet. 

“I’m not ready, Louis,” Harry says, just before he opens the door. 

He doesn’t turn around. “I’ll wait until you are.” 

-*- Winter -*- 

Harry has him pressed against the wall, hands curled into fist at the front of Louis’ jumper. He’s giving off heat like a furnace, air shifting around him, accommodating to make space for him in the flat. The sweat and rain soaked in his clothes make it difficult for Louis to breathe, torn between licking up the side of his neck or simply burying his nose in his armpit and breathing him in like some kind of pathetic asshole. He settles for pressing their cheeks together and letting curls tickle the thin skin of his eyelids. 

Their hips move, without a rhythm or sense for the other, seams snagging on every other thrust. He can feel Harry big and hard on his stomach, equalling his own arousal that’s pooling in the bottom of his abdomen. 

The tip of Harry’s nose is cold against his temple. “Want you to mess me up, Daddy.” 

Louis digs his fingers into his spine and wills him to shut up. To quiet down, to allow them to grind into each other and come into their pants, messy and raw and uncomplicated. Of course, he doesn’t. “Want you to push me around and make me take it. Want you to press my face into the pillow. Fuck me – fuck me hard.” His hands scramble between their bodies, gliding beneath Louis’ jumper, fingers trying to get into his joggers. His rings are freezing. “You could tie me up... maybe, maybe to the bed – does it have the things? For that? Do you have stuff?” It takes a second before Louis understands his rambling and then the words hit him right between the ribs. Harry doesn’t even remember what the bed looks like, if it has bars on the headboard. 

Louis just wants to hold him close and make him feel good without hurting him at the same time. This dynamic has been working out for them for the past years, getting high or drunk, clawing at each other in order to get at something under the pretence of nonchalance and detachment. But it’s not enough. Even if his common sense hadn’t been screaming at him not to let his boy leave after a spanking without making sure he’s alright, he would have had to come to the realisation that he needs more. 

Harry manages to wedge his hand between Louis’ pants and the damp skin of his tummy, fingers edging closer to the base of his cock. His breathing is ragged and loud. “Will you do that for me, Daddy? Just – use me?” 

They were at a holiday party just an hour ago. It was a huge occasion and they could have easily avoided each other, even managed to not see one another at all, but naturally they had drifted towards the same spots on the dance floor and the same people to chummy up to. After the DJ had played the seventh remix of All I Want for Christmas Is You, Louis had decided to leave his friends with the number of his driver and take a cab home to his flat. He was home for twenty before the bell rang. 

Knowing what Harry looks like when he’s horny and desperate enough to follow him in an uber, run to the apartment complex through a violent storm of slick snow, and then up the stairs with a haste his clumsy legs shouldn’t allow, is nothing eighteen year old Louis would have ever dared to imagine. Alas, here he is and it isn’t the first time. 

  
“Want you in me.” He’s heard this exact kind of wording in in this deep, mumbled tone for a decade and it still makes his vision turn blurry. It’s like he is melting, heat unbearable in his chest and rolling in waves towards his limbs. Neither of them is drunk, but Harry is high as a cloud, frantic and fidgety, and Louis shared one or two spliffs with someone earlier, so he is syrupy and slow. Like lava. The thought makes him snort. 

It’s not exactly sexy. Harry stills, face pressed into his shoulder and fingers curled around his dick. “You don’t want it?” 

Louis pushes a hand into his curls, product making them thick and dense. “Of course I want it, Baby. Want you all the time. But...” 

Why did he ever decide to get better. Why isn’t he drunk right now, following his impulses, doing what feels great in the moment and worse after, worse when he is able to bury himself in his sheets. Not as unbearable as rejecting the love of his life because he doesn’t want to fuck him if it’s the only way they can communicate. “How about you fuck me instead?” 

The sound Harry makes is absolutely devastating. He breathes in loudly and pulls back, his eyes rimmed with red, blood shot and wide. “Lou- Daddy, you want me to?” 

He watches him through his own heavy-lidded eyes. “You’ll have to be careful. Go slow. Be good.” 

“I will, I’ll be so gentle,” Harry bites his lower lip, presenting his wrists. “Take me.” 

Louis grabs his hand, pulling him down the Hallway, narrowly avoiding running into the shoe rack. The guest room is prepared, like always. Behind the open door, its white walls and white sheets and white carpet glow in the moonlight. Without thinking, he takes the other turn and leads them into his own bedroom. There are clothes on every surface, dirty dishes on the dresser and the bedside table, a bowl of fruit on the laptop that’s sitting in the middle of the duvet. “Get naked,” he says and uses the time it gives him to hastily clear the mattress. 

When he turns, Harry is naked from the waist up and struggling to get his trousers over his boots. He’s about to fall over and break something. Louis suppresses a smile and pushes him on the bed, kneeling before him. His legs are cold to the touch, the bell-bottoms soggy with melted snow and the fine hairs on his calves raised. He can’t help but rub over them before he goes to unzip the boots, pulling them off one by one, socks following immediately. Then he takes his hands into his own, sliding off each ring individually and setting it on the bedside table. Kissing the tips of his fingers. When he looks up, Harry is gaping at him with a slick and open mouth. He sags forward, catching himself on Louis’ shoulder, chin resting on the crown of his head. “What’re you doing?” he slurs. 

Louis doesn’t answer, inhaling his cologne and the sweetness of his breath. He strokes over the side of the black panties Harry is wearing, lace rough under his palms. They cut into his love handles, blurring the edges of shadows, laurels seeming to grow from them. He licks where they crease on Harry’s thigh, ignoring the urge to bite him and instead sucking the fabric into his mouth at Harry’s shaky whine. He smells pungent here, like trapped arousal. His cock twitches under his tongue, the head of it hot and wet. 

Harry’s fingers press into his neck when Louis frees his dick and takes it into his mouth, careful not to go too fast, relishing the stretch. He tries to regulate his breathing, but his head is getting dizzy, overwhelmed by the taste in the back of his throat, the warmth under his hands, the little gasps coming from above. After he pulls off to wet his lips, he starts bopping up and down attentively, using his fingers to cover what he can’t reach. 

“’s good, Daddy,” Harry murmurs, toying with the hairs at the back of his neck. “So good.” 

He realises he has closed his eyes and opens them again, only to be met with a blissful expression on Harry’s face. The light isn’t on, there’s a tree in front of the window and as a result the shine of the moon is filtered through leaves, shades of them thrown on the walls and the naked skin of Harry’s torso. Louis wants to look at him forever. 

He pulls of, kissing Harry’s cock before straightening his back. “You want to lie down?” 

The clothes he put on when he got home, simple joggers and a woollen jumper, find their way to the mess already scattering the floor. He watches Harry grinding his arse back into the mattress and raising his arms above his head, curving his spine. “The sheets are so soft. Don’t remember them being so soft.” 

Louis crawls on top of him, straddling his hips and adjusting his fringe. “That’s because I haven’t changed them in weeks and they need a wash.” 

“You sleep in this bed?” Harry blinks up at him. 

“Why’d you think my stuff is all over the place? This is my room.” He’d feel embarrassed if he wasn’t so baffled by Harry’s complete lack of observance. Maybe he’s much more gone than he’d initially thought. It makes him hesitate, until one of them shifts slightly and Harry’s stomach comes in contact with his cock. He loops his fingers around it and twists them lazily, sucking on his own tongue for the taste of pre-come. 

“Do you think about me when you get off?” 

Louis smiles, meeting Harry’s intense stare. “Don’t ask stupid questions.” 

“Tell me, Daddy.” An all too familiar frown. 

He falls forward, leaning on his left elbow to whisper in Harry’s ear. “Get myself off thinking about you only. Fucking myself on a toy, wishing it was you. Imagining how you’d split me open. How you’d be forced to be careful with me, unable to demand me to give it to you hard. Just-. You. Being here with me.” 

“Louis-” 

“Think about holding you close,” he says quietly, muffled by his pillow. His hand is still on his cock, just clutching it, refraining from giving into the heat sparking at the bottom of his spine. “Will you do that for me, Baby?” 

He feels Harry nod, their chest touching as he writhes. “Wanna. Want to be good.” 

It’s more than he hoped for. There’s no sense in pretending he can resist him completely, will always come back to him, the last months have proven that. After the fight last time, they endured a month without seeing each other before finding themselves in the same city, the same place, the same bed. He said he would be waiting until Harry is ready, but it’s easy to tell himself he only meant the kissing, to tell himself it hurts more not to have him than to yearn for what he can't have while they’re clawing at each other. 

Trying to keep his balance, Louis takes Harry’s hands and places them on his waist. “Touch me.” 

He drags his lips along Harry’s jaw, moving into his warmth. Their stubble makes a soft chafing sound. His cock pulses in his hand when Harry draws big strokes along his sides, up to his back and down to his bum, squeezing it. He moans, suddenly feeling like he needs to speed things up, so he scoots back to grind against Harry’s dick, arse aching to get filled. His heart stops. 

They stare at each other, both unsure of what to say.   
Harry’s not hard anymore. “It’s - it’s the drugs,” he stammers, cheeks flaming. 

Suddenly, Louis’ stomach threatens to empty itself. He’s up in an instant, rushing to the bathroom where he bends over the toilet, dry-heaving. He was about to let Harry fuck him high on God knows what. Practically using him in a state of unconsciousness. This is worse than being in the same condition and being irresponsible together, this is him trying to make Harry realise they’re made for each other while his guard is inexistent. Something sharp and heavy in him wants to fuck himself up, but he settles for splashing his face with cold water. He slinks back into the bedroom, seeing in horror how Harry is struggling to pull on his trousers. “Don’t go,” he rasps, reaching for him. “Please, don’t go.” 

Harry’s voice is shot. “I disgust you.” 

“Never,” he says, word breaking at the end. “God, never. I’m-. It’s me that-…" 

Helplessly, he shifts his weight, his hand hovering above Harry’s arm. He feels despicable. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers, head hanging low. “I’m sorry I’m so fucked up and that I can’t -. That I can’t give you what you want.” 

This is when Louis hugs him. His heartbeat is irregular, seemingly echoing in his whole body as he brings them together, limbs wobbly and uncoordinated. It makes it easier to breathe, at least. “You didn’t fuck up. I should have sent you home the minute I realised you’re high.” 

There’s a hand on the back of his head. “I don’t know who to be around you when I'm sober.” 

Louis realises he’s crying when his cheekbone glides against Harry’s shoulder, wet with tears. The sobs shake him down to his toes, all his jumbled emotions pouring out of him and dropping onto naked skin. “I don’t know when you began thinking I’d want anyone but you.” 

Harry doesn’t give the obvious reply, instead sways them back and forth, faintly crying himself. Gratitude floods Louis. “Just stay,” he begs. “Please, just stay.” 

-*- 

Louis wakes up with a kick. In his dreams, he was repeatedly running up a set of stairs and every time the end would get in sight, an invisible force would throw him down again. The fear still clings to him when the room flickers into solid shapes. It’s a cloudy day and everything is tinted grey, shadows barely distinguishable from the light. There’s snow on the treetop. Everything is silent, except for his booming heart and the soft snores next to him. 

Harry is on his front, wrapped in the duvet, only his lovely face peeking out. A few curls stick to his forehead. Just getting to lie next to him is soothing. A spot of drool is drying on his pillow and this small detail makes Louis decide that he’s going to try and be hopeful. Even if that’s dangerous with their past. But he’s tired of being miserable and there are several people relying on him, not to mention the pleasant thrum in his blood that sings _More. More, __you’re capable of more._

Sleep leaves Harry slowly. It starts with small snuffles and a wiggle, a whine, then he blinks at Louis, the bags beneath his eyes puffy and pink. There is a lovebite behind his ear and it looks both familiar and strange. He yawns. “Think I... I think I smothered you several times in the night.” 

“Still cuddly,” Louis says with a smile. 

“Always.” The stubble on his cupid’s bow is thicker than it used to be four years ago, but Louis can feel the phantom scratch of it on his own lips, a tingle from last night. Another yawn. This, he recognises. Harry will keep drowsing for at least another five minutes. 

“Get in then,” he pats his chest. 

Harry moves closer hesitantly, resting his head on Louis’ collarbones but barely folding into him. He feels fragile in his arms, vulnerable despite his visible strength, the curves of his biceps. Louis twists one of his curls around his fingers and intertwines their legs. They are both completely naked, sticky from last night and smelling rather intensely. But he fears to lose him if he lets him get up to shower, so he holds tight and stares up at the ceiling, letting the past months filter through his thoughts. Trying to figure out when it became too much to play pretend. 

“Did you ever -. Did your art adviser ever tell you...,” he starts after what feels like an hour of quiet breathing. He coughs. 

“I, uhm, I have the photography of Bowery in my living room.” Harry hides his face in Louis’ chest, skin flaming and it’s probably not because the artwork depicts nudity. 

“So you knew I... You remember?”   
Remember they spend hours upon hours researching the history of their community, falling in love with countless of activists and artist. 

“Yeah.” 

He breathes out shakily and tries to disguise it with a chuckle. “Thought maybe you burned everything that reminded you of me.” 

Harry snorts, the huff of his breath sending a string of sparks down Louis’ front. He doesn’t elaborate, only presses a chaste kiss on the side of Louis’ neck, humming quietly. The sun rises behind the tree outside, getting a little brighter. The shadow of his own face falls on top of Harry’s. An onslaught of memories engulfs him, his body recognizes this exact position from countless of mornings, in different locations, in different homes, but always the guarantee of at least a short amount of time of tranquillity. 

He rubs his thumb above one of the tattoos that mirror his own. “How are you feeling?” 

“I took too much yesterday,” Harry groans. “Feel like I’m getting sick.” 

“You still high?” 

Silence. He contemplates strangling himself with the pillow when Harry rises and hovers above him, frown darkening his eyes. There’s some mascara smudged around his lashes. Whatever he is thinking, Louis knows he’ll want to cry. 

Harry’s gaze flitters down to his lips. “I think... I think more about kissing you than when we were together.” 

It’s not what he expected. It still breaks him down completely. And that’s why his third important first kiss tastes like salty tears. It might be his favourite. His lungs constrict while he is trying to inhale air and the scents of familiar cologne, last night’s sweat, and restless sleep. Their mouths are hungry, desperate, but after a few initial seconds of urgency, they slow down, finding their rhythm. It’s so good. Nothing like their first kiss a decade ago, not nearly as tentative. But Louis feels like the same eighteen year old who didn’t know what the future would bring him. 

“I’ve wanted to do this every time,” he confesses into the space between them, combing his fingers to the tangle of curls at Harry’s neck. 

Harry makes a small, agreeing sound, whispers, “don’t stop,” and draws his bottom lip into his mouth. He’s all Louis can perceive, seeming taller and broader on top of him, yet curving his spine to ease their height difference. For the first time in months, he wants to feel exposed and cared for. He shifts and draws Harry between his legs, placing them around his slim waist. It’s not his intention to adjoin their cocks, only wants to hold him properly, but the two of them still gasp when they feel the other getting hard. His neck is twinging from the way he is pushing their mouths together, not able to stop. He gently nibbles on Harry’s lip, soothing the bite with his tongue. It elicits a moan and an impulsive thrust against his tummy. The image of being spread open and filled burns in his mind. 

“Do you still want to fuck me?”, he blurts, clenching his jaw. 

Harry swallows noticeably. “I’m -. Do you...” He breaks off, cheeks on fire. 

“What is it?”, Louis asks, ready to drop it and go back to kissing. Maybe cuddle some more before taking a bath together. 

“Are you -… What if I’m not what you want anymore? You don’t - you’ve only had me in very specific situations for the past years, uhm -… What if I’m not enough.” 

Louis knows very well he’s not talking about the size of his dick. He reaches down towards it anyway, his saliva pooling behind his teeth when he finds it heavy and twitching in his touch. “I want everything that you want to give me. It will be enough –... if you want to go back to-...,” he falters. “If you want to go back to what we were before, me being your Daddy and other than that not – not talking, that’s okay. I -. I only need it to happen sober. But I will, yeah, I will take everything you’re able to offer.” 

“Want you to be my Daddy,” Harry says softly, neck turning rosy too. “But I also want -. You. Again.” 

“Yeah?”, Louis asks, carding through a lose wave of curls. 

“Yeah. All of you.” 

He hopes his emotions are transparent when he says: “I’m sorry, Harry. I’m going to do better.” 

Harry shakes his head, eyes closing, lips coming close to Louis’ mouth. “Baby, I... I will, too. I will do better.” 

They kiss for a long time, grinding into each other, hands roaming and finding their homes in the places they used to rest years ago. Eventually, Harry licks down his front, biting at his nipples and at the swell of his stomach, surpassing his cock and sucking at his rim. Louis’ sense of calm vanishes, and he can’t hold back his whimpers, tugging at the greasy strands at the top of Harry’s head, only to pull him in again, arching his back. He hasn’t been eaten out for years and he forgot how raw it makes him feel, how helpless. It gets too much too easily and soon enough he starts crying again, turning his face into the pillow. 

Harry’s tongue is forceful and experienced, getting him wet with spit, teasing him. He spreads Louis with his hands, shouldering his way between his legs. Before going back to licking at him, he bites and sucks at Louis’ thigh, etching himself into his skin. Then he starts giving it to him earnestly, not slowing down even though his jaw must ache eventually. When Louis is opened up a bit, a finger pushes at his hole. He whines when cool air hits him. 

“Want to fuck you –,” Harry stutters. He comes up on all fours, kissing Louis’ temples. “Is that... is that okay? Do you still want-” 

“Yes, yes”, he chants, pointing to his bedside table. “Lube should be in there. Get me ready, Love.” 

Harry opens him up with deft fingers, finding his spot in no time and applying so much pressure, his legs start trembling. He can feel every knuckle sliding in an out, his walls accommodating to the stretch, the burn exquisite. His hips rotate on their own accord, snapping back and lifting from the mattress. He gets impatient when he has to hold back from coming, rolls them over and steadies himself above Harry’s cock. After he slicks him up and before he sinks down, their eyes meet. 

“Don’t stop touching me.” 

“Won’t,” Harry promises and slides one of his big hands to his waist, the other squeezing his thigh. 

Louis rides him slowly. Hands on his chest, scratching over the swallows, he works his hips in circles and groans at the sensation of fullness. He has to lift himself off and add more lube a few minutes in, enjoying Harry’s whines when he jerks him roughly. “Need to be patient with me, Baby.” 

Harry nods, the rest of his body completely motionless. “Too much?” 

He laughs, the vibrations making it easier to take him in again, and leans forward once he is seated. “You’re not the only one who likes a bit of pain, remember?” 

They smile at each other. Like they used to. “Want you to feel good.” 

Louis licks at his lip, kissing him softly. “I’m okay.” 

He takes up where he left off, moving carefully, angling himself in a way that gets his spot stimulated with every other twist. It fun at some point, twisting his body and rotating his hips, the kind of movements that make him feel desirable. Soon, his balls tighten, and he starts fucking into his own fist. Harry stays beautifully put, fingers digging into his skin, staring up at him, the grey light turning the green in his eyes almost translucent. His hair is matte and disarrayed from his own squirming and Louis’ urge to get to all of him. 

“Look so good, Louis, so beautiful -,” Harry moans. “Missed you like this. Missed being in you. M-missed fucking you.” 

Louis holds onto his shoulders and slows down, saying “turn us around then, give it to me,” and bracing himself. 

Harry complies, flipping them and fucking into him with choppy thrusts, shoving him up the mattress. He is louder in Louis’ ears than his own whines, sounding like he’s the one having his breath punched out of him. There’s nothing like this, nothing that simultaneously wipes him out and makes him feel completely safe. He has a feeling he’s not alone in this. Harry starts babbling nonsense, stuff about his skin and his eyes and his lips and his courage. “Always so strong,” he sighs. Then he silences himself by sucking at the sensitive skin on Louis’ collarbones, teeth harsh and demanding. 

Louis cries his name when his orgasm reaches him. 

When his vision clears, he sees Harry brushing through the mess on his tummy, bringing his hand up to lick between his fingers. He snaps his hips forward, visibly getting off on tasting Louis. It’s not comfortable anymore, but Louis hugs him close anyway and kisses him; sharing his own bitterness between them. “Want to fill Daddy with your come?” 

Nodding frantically, Harry cages him in, arms locked behind his head, eyes screwed shut. His skin flushes pink once again. Sweat drops from his drawn brows as he fucks forward, cock throbbing, his lips swollen and pink. “God, Daddy I-,” he mouths, and comes. 

They drift for a while. Louis stretches his legs after Harry pulls out. Spunk dribbles out of him and the overwhelming smell of it clogs his nose. His eyes burn from crying. The edges of his lashes still stick together. He needs to take a deep breath but doesn’t want to push Harry from his chest, succumbing to his light-headedness. It’s much easier than thinking clearly, anyway. Maybe he can just stay in this headspace forever. Just keep going through life in a daze of Harry. He doesn’t want to ask about what happens next but probably needs to know it in order for his limbs to stop trembling. 

“You okay?” The sheets stick to his back. 

“Yeah. Uhm. Are you?” 

His toes are getting cold. “I-. I feel really good. But also, I’m... you know.” 

Harry rolls onto his side, facing Louis. His lips are as dark as when he’s wearing lipstick. “I thought about why I wasn’t ready, before. And it’s just. Uhm. I think I need to re-learn how to -” 

“Trust me.” 

“No,” Harry frowns. “Babe, of course I trust you. Just, maybe, for certain things I need more...” 

Louis rubs his eyes. “It’s okay. I feel like that, too. Obviously, we’ve lost... something in the last years. But we can, we can get it back. Right?” 

He sounds so small. So very insecure.   
Two fingers stroke along his cheekbone, before they travel to his chin. Instead of answering, Harry kisses him. His heartbeat is reverberating in his throat, his lips are tacky and tender. Harry licks along the corners of them, pushing himself up and cradling his temple. His arse is sore, but it feels good, a persistent ache that reminds him of what he can withstand. He disconnects their mouths, lying back into the pillow to look up at Harry and soothe the crease between his brows, inspecting him. Seeing him in the morning light of his own bedroom. 

It should be impossible, but there’s the sharp sweetness of peaches on Louis’ tongue. 

-*-

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! Comments would be appreciated!  
[Tumblr post.](https://pattern-pals.tumblr.com/post/187501344845/be-my-once-in-a-lifetime-by-happyprincess)  
xx


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